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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367128">mellifluous</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs'>wajjs</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Mutual Pining, Non-Linear Narrative</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 09:22:01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,174</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25367128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/wajjs/pseuds/wajjs</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Upon the twisted line of the grimace on his mouth no kiss falls. They are at an impasse.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Jason Todd/Bruce Wayne</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>28</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>mellifluous</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Currently fighting my writer's block by writing more but without punishing myself over the word count</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p>
<p>
  <strong> <em>mellifluous</em> </strong>
</p>
<p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
<p>  Upon the twisted line of the grimace on his mouth no kiss falls. They are at an impasse.</p>
<p>  “Look,” he says like air never betrays him, “just get it over with.”</p>
<p>  The piece comes out. It’s a bloody vision the one he makes. He bites down so hard his jaw aches empty and echoing. They share a look. The one he gives spells <em> don’t say you are sorry. Don’t make this better. </em></p>
<p>  The silence is a deadly thing that spreads. They still live in it.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  He chokes on repressed sensations. <em> We could’ve been so great</em>, the singer sings and he slams his glass down on the rickety table. It shakes a little under the force but nothing falls off. He’s got papers and more papers all spread out on the surface, blueprints, schematics, plans, photos, a list of the things with words for teeth stripping him raw. He pushes on and on, lets the repetition drown everything else until the world is like it is while six feet under water.</p>
<p>  He’s well fed, thoroughly clean, acceptably rested. He tends to himself with the precision needed to keep himself on top of his game. It’s methodical. It couldn’t be any other thing or else he wouldn’t have made it this far, he wouldn’t have made it at all. </p>
<p>  There are no picture frames anywhere near him. Faces of those he dares love haunt him too much. Giving space to every single one of them would put emphasis on the one he doesn’t dare admit.</p>
<p> <em> We could’ve been so great, </em> the singer repeats and their voice fades into nothingness. He acts like he doesn’t notice. He keeps working.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  Look, there’s a certain amount of pity to be had for he who stands on his own grave and reads his own name on the tombstone. Boots getting a little dirty with mud and grass stains, half a smile on his lips, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders down in a soft line. His figure is still imposing in this intimate moment, in this instant he’s letting himself -</p>
<p>  The man that comes to a stop right by his side says nothing. The difference in how they are dressed is a stark contrast of many a million things, unimportant in the grand scheme of things. Unimportant now that they are together in quietness like this, no blood or war chasing their movements, no pain or open wounds that need to be sutured.</p>
<p>  “You know,” he begins and the words come flowing out even though inside forming them is a torture of pauses, ellipses and half assed metaphors to hide the raw truth, “I waited for you. Hoped for you.”</p>
<p>  They don’t move to stand any closer. They don’t turn to look at each other. This way is the only way they can even begin to talk.</p>
<p>  “I hoped for time,” the man says low, low enough so that the wind can’t disintegrate the meaning. “Time to get to you.”</p>
<p>  He doesn’t laugh.</p>
<p>  “That’s actually a funny thing.”</p>
<p>  The man hums.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  On the sticky thread of a cobweb the dust of his once future sleeps. That future that’s been smashed to smithereens, blown up and drowned out in green waters. If that is a good or bad thing is impossible to say or determine, it simply is and now he’s an agent of his own malleable tomorrow. He doesn’t have a clear road ahead of his steps and the lights have all been shot off. He sits alone in the room, surrounded by his work and his weapons, mug of cold forgotten coffee illuminated by the glow of an old laptop screen. He sits and ruminates his regrets, the hundreds he has, in all the things he’s done, for all he’s blessed and he’s wronged.</p>
<p>  Against the glass of the closed window rainfall crashes, drop after drop after drop washing away the grime on the outside. It changes the grey of the city to a lighter shade, disperses the smoke and smog, shreds through paper and sodden cardboard. He moves, brings a light to his mouth and in the reflection of the window the red dot of his lit cigarette appears. </p>
<p>  There’s an unread message on his phone. He knows who it’s from, which is why it’ll remain unopened until he’s somewhere far away, far enough so that he won’t go back to that house -the one place he misses, the warmth of the rugs, the softness of the bed, the embrace- and wait for <em> him </em> there. Walking room by room, armed with a patience he no longer has. Because he’s never been that kind of guy, even when he’s always been a poor fool shooting for the stars.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  Why do you look at him like he'll vanish each time he leaves the room? Like he'll see, this time he will, and upon his unveiled eyes all your truths and your horrors will throw a parade. </p>
<p>  Why do you look at him like he'll vanish each time he leaves the room? Are you so starved for touch and by the longing of what you'll never have? Are you such a glutton for punishment that you worship the space he transits?</p>
<p>  But among your reverence is the fascination for the what if. What if he does vanish, what if he does leave? The morbid satisfaction that would give you, a gnawing gushing spurting pustulent thing. It would tear you apart and reshape you, making you whole again but odd once more. What if he does leave and thus his absence proves you’ve been right all along. What if he does leave and you are free of this feeling, what would become of you when you have nothing left to be felt.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>  They live and make a decent try at existing while continuously dancing around each other. It’s what happens when they both are different brands of modern tragedies, traced by different compasses and doomed by variant beginnings. It all sounds too much like a cliché, but this is a portrait they’ve been modeled after for them to portray in all lightnings and shadows.</p>
<p>  There is no middle ground for them to meet and breathe the same kind of air.</p>
<p>  Upon each other’s backs their gazes fall, the width of their shoulders, the height of their shadows, the outline of a profile. </p>
<p>  Why do they look at each other like they are running out of chances?</p>
<p>  Why do they look for each other like they are running out of life?</p>
<p>  In blood blooms their desperation. In the press of hands on a torso rid of battle armor, the push and release that follows a strict rhythm, and he’s unwilling to stop, with sweat on his brow and on his upper lip. With tremors in his shoulders and all the hushed words belonging to their yearning whimpering in quiet secret.</p>
<p>  “Come on,” the man in the black imposing suit says, cape draped around them like the curtain waiting for the final call, “come on, <em> come on, hang on, come on,</em>”</p>
<p> </p>
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